WordCircus

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Sometimes I just feel a little bit too
confident, a bit too content with all of my admittedly white-bread, middle
American life choices. That’s when I go to Goop.

Goop.com is Gwenyth Paltrow’s answer to the
question nobody was asking, “How can I be more of a stick goddess whose
every decision is pure and healthy and filled with cosmic wonder?

I last visited the site when writing a (quasi)
review of Gwyn’s cookbook, which I’ll call I’m Better At Eating Than You.
(Disclosure: I didn’t read the book, but it’s true: she is definitely much,
much better at eating than me).

A brief trip to the site offers many wonders. The
main page offers a review of “clean” lip balms, which puzzles me, as I would
not have thought a woman of Paltrow’s stature would have trouble finding a lip
balm that hasn’t already been sampled. I have this trouble myself when trying
to shop the discount bin at Ulta.

But I didn’t stop to investigate further, as my eye
was drawn by the promise of learning how to make “Moon Juice.” The article
begins with these enticing words:

“Moon Juice is magic. Like, real magic.”

Real
magic? Like in Harry Potter? Count me IN! But as I continue reading I’m
disappointed to learn that the “magic” apparently comes only from consuming
exotic ingredients that no one’s ever heard of, like schisandra berry
and mucuna (which could not have a less appetizing name).

The writer of this post then goes on
to praise the magic juice maker (whose last name, ironically, is Bacon) saying
that not only can she invent drinks with weird berries, “she is also other-worldly: She literally glows from within, making any
encounter with her, an ‘I’ll have what she’s having’ moment.”

I now begin to understand the “real
magic” mix-up from before, since the author does not know what the
word literally means. I have been misled by bad grammar. Apparently even
consuming only the juice of rare and incredibly expensive fruits does not
ensure peak brain function. It seems even Moon Juice has its limits.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

I live by
myself, so I talk to my dog a fair amount. I also often see things on the TV
that compel me to vent my disbelief, confusion, and occasional outrage.

Here are just a
few of the recent ones:

1. Weight Watchers…is now offering coaches. A woman rocking Michelle Obama’s
arms promises help if you go into the office and “there are donuts…and you
weren’t expecting them.”

I have a lot to
say about this. First, why does it matter if the donuts were expected? Are sneak-attack donuts
somehow more difficult to resist? Does the gun-show lady mean to suggest that
the occasion of pre-announced donuts would have involved some sort of
donut-evasion plan? When did life become this difficult?

Second, it’s
possible that I will go to work someday, and there will be donuts (either of
the pre-ordained or stealth variety) and it’s also possible that I will not eat
one of them.

It is utterly
ridiculous, however, to think I’m going to take time out of my day to call some
woman I saw on TV to talk me out of it.

2. Jupiter Ascending…is coming to
theaters next week. The trailer features Channing Tatum done up as some kind of
outer-space elf. I keep expecting him to say something about the five armies of
Middle Earth.

I mean, I still
want to see it, but it may just be a hot mess.

Still brooding over the desolation of Smaug?

3. Disney and
Universal…run a lot of ads in January. In them, nobody is wearing coat. I mean,
not even a light jacket.

I live here, so
I can tell you—this is a lie. It was forty-two degrees on my way to work this
morning.

4. TGIT…ads on
ABC feature a bunch of stars from Scandal,
How to Get Away With Murder, and that hospital show that’s been on for
nineteen years. They all pretend they’ve been having withdrawal symptoms from
not seeing their own TV shows.

Come on: you’ve been on
vacay somewhere tropical, and we all know it. I am psyched to watch two of
these shows and all, but I don’t fancy being patronized about it.

Sunday, January 25, 2015

Between the new
VH1 scripted series Hindsight and
re-watching the first season of Friends
on Netflix (along with most everyone I know), I’ve been overdosing on 90s
nostalgia.

I’m really
enjoying Hindsight, in spite of its
simple and definitely-been-done-before premise. Protagonist Becca is nearing
forty and about to walk down the aisle at her second wedding when a mysterious
stranger sends her back in time twenty years to the eve of her first wedding.
It’s 1995, and she remembers everything that came before. And now she has the
chance to do all over—only better this time.

Assuming I
accept the time travel in your own body premise, which, of course, I do,
Becca’s story is still a bit of a reach. If just a few among us do get a chance at a do-over, why would
a pretty blonde with a perfect body, who looks exactly the same at forty as she
did at twenty be the one who gets the nod? I guess her job’s not great or whatever, but
this is a girl woman who is about to marry her second very cute, very
nice man. If her life requires a
do-over, where the heck is my Time Angel?

The show gets a
lot of mileage out of Becca’s culture shock. She misses her iPhone. The
funniest moment so far has her explaining to her 1995 best friend that in the
future she’ll be able to watch movies on her phone. The girl picks up a
cordless handset, mystified, and asks, “Where?”

I’m getting my
own culture shock from revisiting Friends,
which I last watched when it first aired in 1994. I’d almost forgotten how
comfortable long, flowered dresses were, especially when paired with denim
jackets—and, of course, chunky, flat shoes (perhaps it should be noted that I still wear chunky, flat shoes, I just
don’t look cool anymore while doing it).

The New York of
Friends is quite the fantasyland, and
not just because it’s a place where a waitress and a cook can afford a gigantic
West Village apartment (and still have extra money for flowered dresses and
chunky shoes). Occasionally one of the gang runs into a wacky homeless person,
but in general they float through the city needing neither money nor street
smarts. And there’s only snow if the plot calls for it (and it melts away
instantly after that). So it probably doesn’t pay to get too nostalgic for a
world that never really existed.

(Also, don’t we all kind of want to forget the fact that each Friend got paid a
million dollars an episode for the
last season? If you figure out the per-minute salary, it's actually sort of gross).

For me, of
course I kind of want to return to a simpler time, when tweens didn’t know how
to apply a smoky eye or walk in four-inch heels. When you could wear the same
outfit to go wilderness hiking or out to a dinner date. But time marches on,
and you don’t get to travel in time, unless you count Netflix, that is.

In the vein of great box-office blockbusters, the
high-stakes romance here sizzles within this page-turning thriller that will
leave readers feeling like they are flying through the streets of New York.

Cam has come to accept the rhythm of his life as a bike
messenger: racing up and down the streets of New York City from one run to the
next. With no family to rely on and a mountain of debts, at least it’s an
honest way to help pay off his dangerous debtors. Cam’s whole world comes
crashing down on him one day when he runs into a beautiful stranger. After
falling out of the sky and wiping out Cam and his bike, she disappears before
he can find out anything about her. When he starts to see her around town, he
quickly realizes that she is part of an underground group of teens who have
turned NYC into their own parkour playground—running, jumping, seemingly flying
through the city like it’s an obstacle course. Cam becomes fascinated with
the sport—and the beautiful stranger, Nikki. He falls in with the group, and
they offer him the chance to make some extra money. But when the stakes become
life or death, Cam is torn between following his heart and sacrificing
everything to pay off his debts.

I don’t have a book trailer to share
with you…but check out the official movie trailer for TRACERS on Youtube!

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

My favorite part of the commercial comes a few seconds in. It’s the disclaimer
at the bottom of the screen:

“Fantasy simulated
image. Do not attempt. Cars cannot snowboard.”

This is really great. I appreciate the thoroughness of Nissan’s legal
department. I mean, it may seem as though one could assume that all human
beings who are familiar with either cars and/or snowboards would understand
that cars are not the same as
snowboards. But, just in case, this is a pretty helpful reminder.

Now, along with warnings like hot coffee is hot, we are
collectively being addressed as though we had the intellect and decision making
skills of a toddler—and not a particularly smart toddler at that.

And yet…the other day I got sucked into some ridiculous
click bait: tattoo fails.

These are people so smart they didn’t find out how to spell
simple words before getting them inked into their skins. Lots of “Your my
heart” type of sayings, and a number of people who pledged “No Regerts” (I’m
guessing they subsequently learned the taste as well as the correct spelling of
regret.) Many of these same folks
later used their smartphones to post proud photos of their ink, so it cannot be
argued that they didn’t have the necessary tools to find out how to spell or
punctuate a phrase so near and dear to their heart (or, hart, in several cases).

Dictionary.com is fast and free. Unlike tattoo removal.

Come to think of it, maybe it couldn't hurt to remind one or
two of us that cars are not, in fact, snowboards. Disclaimers are doubtless
here to stay. As long as there are those out there who continue to be-live in
miracles, it’s probably safer to remind everyone that cars can’t fly.

Sunday, November 16, 2014

I was taken home from the hospital and brought directly to The Suburbs, and
there I have remained for pretty much my entire life, yet there are numerous
mysteries about this way of life that I just can’t wrap my head around.

I’ll be
the first to confess: I can be basic. I love Starbucks’s overpriced lattes,
and when there’s the first sign of chill in the air, I go running for a Pumpkin
Spice flavored one. But I also suspect I don’t truly belong since I don’t really
understand the point of having a lawn, for example. It’s an awful lot of
trouble and money and time to grow something you can’t even eat.

So along
with an unhealthy Home Depot obsession, here are the things I just don’t get:

Tree
spotlights.

Walk down
any suburban sidewalk after dusk and you’ll see this phenomenon for yourself:
suburban folks love to put little spotlights right at the base of what I assume
are their favorite trees.

Is the intended message: “Look, I grew a tree!” ?

This tree must feel like a superstar.

Cutesy
“signs.”

Spotted
on a walk the other day: “Forget the Dog: Beware of the Kids.”

You’ve
seen this: lawns “decorated” with a whole slew of statuary, usually a bizarre
assortment: baby squirrels, cartoon rabbits, whimsical gnomes, serene Buddhas.
They are often arranged in a little circle as though having a perpetual
cocktail party. The best is when the figures were once brightly painted but
have chipped and faded in the elements and are now just plain scary.

Add a
cheerful sign: “Welcome to our Home!” and the picture is complete.